


the shape of all i ever wanted to say

by Dialux



Series: the memory of things becomes the reality of things [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandonment And Its Inherent Trauma, Betrayal and forgiveness, Brother-Sister Relationships, Conversations, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: “I did not wish to come back, Arafinwë. It was not because of you: it was not because of anyone but myself. Do not think that…”“That I wasn’t enough?” He smiles wryly. “What else am I supposed to think?”[Finarfin and Findis speak, after six thousand years apart.]
Relationships: Finarfin | Arafinwë & Findis
Series: the memory of things becomes the reality of things [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104989
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	the shape of all i ever wanted to say

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last bit of this series!

“I did search for you,” says Finarfin.

“I know,” replies Findis. She doesn’t look back at him, but rather out at the sun, slowly rising and illuminating the world. Her hair is brighter still than his own, unbleached by the sun, and would resemble Vanyarin gold if not for the beads she’s woven through it, whittled with remarkable precision.

“When did you start wood-whittling?”

“A while ago,” says Findis idly. When she does turn back to him, Finarfin’s hard-pressed to keep from wincing; he still isn’t used to her eldritch-bright eyes. “I did not wish to come back, Arafinwë. It was not because of you: it was not because of anyone but myself. Do not think that…”

“That I wasn’t enough?” He smiles wryly. “What else am I supposed to think?”

“That I trusted you to rule over our people, and rule well,” says Findis. “If I thought you naive enough to bend to the loudest voice or headstrong enough to accept some foolish proposal- I would have stayed, no matter how I’d have to grit my teeth or silence my soul’s shrieking.”

“We could have grieved together,” he points out, and through some miracle, his voice does not shake. “Our entire family- my children, Fingolfin’s children, Fëanor’s children- our entire  _ people-  _ and we could have grieved, Findis, we could have built ourselves from then, upwards and onwards and greater. I needed you!”

“Yes,” she says. “I know.” 

“Then  _ why?” _

“Because you did not see me,” says Findis. “You did not see me when Fëanor passed- did you hear the people singing? Vanyamar rang with celebration when Manwë announced my brother’s death, and I was so  _ angry-  _ I remembered what Lalwen said, Arafinwë, of my song at our father’s death. And I was not half so angry then as I was in Vanyamar. I was angry and I was afraid, and I was angry at the Valar just as much as I was angry at our mother, at our family, at Fëanor and myself, and the thing that terrified me more than all else was becoming Fëanor: too powerful for my own good, and too loud to hear anyone else’s words.”

“So you went the opposite direction,” says Finarfin. “The  _ extreme  _ of the opposite direction.”

“What choice did I have?” asks Findis.

“To return?”

“Ah, but I was mourning as well,” says Findis, and smiles, so sad it’s heartbreaking. “And I was certain that I would break the world open if I had to speak of any of the grief. I was mourning myself. I was mourning the loss of my craft, without word or thought because I had forsworn the Valar.” She shakes her head. “If I had returned to Tirion, I would have sung my grief out. I could not have stopped singing. And I was afraid- deathfully afraid- of what that song would do.”

“Fear has not won any battle,” says Finarfin quietly.

“But prudence?” asks Findis, and laughs at the way he winces, the sound light as feathers on the wind. “Did Nerdanel tell you that I feared becoming as wind?”

“Yes. Fëanor told her, apparently. She thought you’d disappeared.”

“I wanted to,” she confesses. “But I could not. There were things chaining me here.” Findis reaches out, and, gently, threads her fingers through his hair like they’ve done a thousand times before, drawing him into an embrace, Finarfin’s head against her neck, his hair spilling down her back, both of their braids tangling until it’s impossible to distinguish the gold from the gold. “But I do not lie, Arafinwë, and I promise you now: I did not return to Tirion solely for Fëanor. I returned because I saw Tyelkormo and Irisse and that did not shatter me apart, and I spent another week having them tell me the entire story of their time in Beleriand: the good, the evil, the sorrows and the joys- and that did not break me either.” She rocks back and forth, the faintest amount, heel to ball of the foot, smooth as caramel, like he’s a child in her arms once more. “You should have seen my face when I heard him call it the First Kinslaying!”

“And not the only one?”

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t true kinslaying until the third one,” says Findis archly, and Finarfin pulls away to shudder with horrified laughter. “The Teleri aren’t kin of ours save for a very distant  _ we woke at the same time,  _ is it not? And the Sindar are even further separated. At least there were some Noldor in Sirion-”

“-all elves are kin,” says Finarfin helplessly.

“Bah. All elves are kin? So are orcs, then, and I don’t hear anyone discussing  _ them.” _ Findis pauses. “And what of those who were executed for dereliction of duty? All I’m saying is that you ought to have a better name for it!”

“It was kinslaying for Galadriel,” he points out. “And my sons.”

Findis rolls her eyes. “As if anyone considers your golden family when discussing the kinslayings,” she says acidly, but not before he sees the glint of hidden amusement in her eyes.

“Do  _ not  _ discuss this with anyone else,” he begs her. “I’ve enough diplomatic disasters without adding you to them, Findis.”

“Keep our illustrious grand-uncle Ingw ë and his moralizing away from me, then,” she tells him, and kisses him on the brow, and leaves.


End file.
